


pull at the last of this shredded honor

by ayuminb



Series: The Long Night [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Sneaking Around Trope, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, Dark Jon Snow, Everything is Different - Except Jon Still Goes to The Wall, Except Jon - Who Dies and Comes Back Different, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied Feelings, JonxSansaFanFiction 12 Days of Shipping, Post-Canon, Post-Series, The Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Truly, if he had it in him, Jon would feel their actions like blows to his unwavering honor.





	pull at the last of this shredded honor

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to [their unspoken words became their silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13221459)

Truly, if he had it in him, Jon would feel their actions like blows to his unwavering honor.

 

Except there’s none of that now, is there? Unshakable Stark honor that Father had instilled in him and Robb had been eroding since he infiltrated the wildlings. Since plunging his sword into Qhorin Halfhand’s guts. It’s been a constant fall down the slippery slope; never managing to get back up. _Gods_ , but he’d only wanted to make Father _proud_ , be worthy of being called his son.

 

_(Turncloak. Traitor. Honorless bastard.)_

 

As proud as Uncle Benjen had been when he was elected Lord Commander; Jon had been so _eager_ to send a raven sharing the news to those in Winterfell. Except there’d been no time – not with the threat of the Other and Mance Rayder’s army, not when the safety of countless lives fell on his shoulders.

 

And then it’d stopped mattering.

 

_(One, two, three daggers in the dark. And a fourth – that last he never felt. Only the cold, cold, cold.)_

 

Then he’d known no more _(but then he’d opened his eyes nonetheless)_ ; then he’d come back, gasping and panicking and struggling to remember _(and then he did remember, bits and pieces and brothers and father and uncle and sister)._ Struggling to make sense of many things, he’d clung to Ghost, drew recognition through him.

 

_(And Sansa.)_

 

 _“My watch has ended,”_ he’d said to a hall full of Lords once he’d come back to Winterfell, and then, _“I am the shield that guards the realms of men.”_

 

_(Even then, he’d tried to cling to the remains of his shredded honor. Now, though…)_

 

He strides down the halls towards the part of the castle where the ladies gathered to do whatever it is they did to keep occupied during the dull days of this everlasting winter. He _dares_ because Lady Stark is at the other side of the castle, because other than her friends, Sansa is alone.

 

Jon hears her before he sees her—her happy giggling and hushed whispers. Innocent sounds that make his blood burn because he’s _heard_ them before, countless times, in many, _many_ different settings. In many, _many_ different tones – but always when he has her all to himself.

 

_(…now he doesn’t care. Not when he has the tantalizing promise of her within reach.)_

 

He rounds a corner, and there she comes, talking in hushed tones with Jeyne Poole. They pause briefly when they see him; Jeyne blushes and looks down, but Sansa is carefully stoic as she nods at him. Jon gives her a slight tilt of his mouth, but an intense enough stare to get his meaning across, never faltering in his step.

 

He rounds another corner when it happens.

 

“Jeyne, you go on ahead, I think I forgot something.”

 

“I can wait—”

 

“No, that’s alright. I won’t be long.”

 

And then comes the hurried steps. Jon pauses, leans against the stonewall, lets the coolness of it soothe him because, and this he knows for certain, if he doesn’t, he’ll take her against it as soon as she rounded that corner.

 

He nearly does, anyway, when she appears before him, a little breathless and flushed. He grabs the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss that’s almost desperate. Even if it’s not been that long since they been like this. Jon kisses and kisses and _kisses_ her, passionately, and delights in the little moans already falling from her lips, in the way she fists the hair at his nape, how she presses closer into his body.

 

“Sansa…”

 

Distantly, he can hear steps coming their way, though Sansa remains oblivious as she lets a low whine escape her mouth in the times they break the contact to take a breath, as she grinds into him erratically. Dragging his lips along her jaw, a slow trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, he smirks; then he’s pulling them into a storage room further down the hall.

 

“Jon—”

 

He silences her with another kiss “—shh.”

 

It’s then that she becomes aware of the steps echoing outside their hiding spot. There’s a look of mild panic, before her mouth falls open – he’s grabbed her hips, found the right rhythm to press against her, the right angle.

 

_“Sansa?”_

 

Ah, it’s her friend.

 

Sansa tries to look reproachful, digs her nails into his leather doublet over his shoulders, but still bites her bottom lip to stop the whimpers and moans from spilling out. He gathers her skirts over her thighs, hiking her legs up onto his waist and rolls his hips once, _twice_ , a third time that makes him muffle his groans into her shoulder. Together, Jon’s positive they’ve ventured into every nook and cranny of Winterfell, sneaking around for stolen moments like this.

 

She likes it better when they take their time, when there’s a soft bed to lay upon, or just the quiet intimacy that comes from a long period of time just being alone – _usually_. Sometimes, she likes this as well—the thrill at the very thought of being discovered, the rush of having to be quiet and quick before time runs out. Oh, but _Sansa_ , his sweet sister likes to pretend this is not something they ought to do _(among a thousand other things)_ , carry on like depraved people in the middle of a hallway.

 

Jon’s _felt_ it, though, the way her cunt would clench around him every time the risk presented itself, a glorious peak taking over her with the strength of a raging storm.

 

He wants to feel it again. Now.

 

“I want to fuck you,” he rasps, lips brushing the shell of her ear; she shakes her head, “ _Sansa_ … I want to fuck your pretty cunt.”

 

She blinks, focuses her eyes on him, wide and bright even as her pupils expand to swallow the blue of them. “Right now?”

 

And how is it that she manages to look so innocent, with her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands already moving to the laces to his breeches.

 

Pushing her skirts higher up to bunch around her waist, he tugs enough at her smallclothes to get them out of the way. "Yeah," he groans softly, and echo of her own needy moan, and slides into her slowly, “yeah, right _now_.”


End file.
